


I Live Upstairs From You

by Hoborg



Category: Miraculous Ladybug, “Luka” (Suzanne Vega song)
Genre: Domestic Violence, Drama, Happy Ending, Other, Post-Canon, in our direst need the smallest gifts, little old ladies who know all the dirt on their neighbors, no onstage physical violence, some implied violence, some onstage verbal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 19:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoborg/pseuds/Hoborg
Summary: In which Luka (from Miraculous Ladybug), grown up and on his own, moves into a new apartment… downstairs from Luka (from the Suzanne Vega song, “(My Name Is) Luka”).This story involves domestic abuse.However, there is no on-stage physical violence and I promise a happy ending.





	I Live Upstairs From You

**Author's Note:**

> Tagged “creator chose not to use archive warnings” because I kinda think abuse _should_ be an archive warning category? so tagging “no archive warnings apply” doesn’t feel right. Nonetheless, none of the existing warning categories apply.

Monday night. Luka Couffaine is unpacking the last box of his record collection when he hears shouting from upstairs.

He picked this apartment mostly for its location—walking distance to his day job, a short Metro ride from the band’s rehearsal space—he knew the walls would be thin. His first thought is _I hope this doesn’t mean I can’t practice without bothering the neighbors._

There are two voices, high and low, they both sound furious but he can’t make out any of the words. Probably for the best; he just moved in, he shouldn’t _immediately_ get mixed up in his neighbors’ business—

The high voice cuts off abruptly. There’s a dull thump, then another, and then silence.

Luka sits up two more hours, but there are no more noises from upstairs.

* * *

Tuesday morning. Luka hauls a basket of clothes down to the laundry room in the basement.

There’s someone else already occupying a washer, a woman about his own age. She’s in housework clothes, sweats and an old T-shirt a bit big for her, but carefully made up—well, some people won’t even leave the bedroom till they’ve put their face on—no, that’s not it. Not this time.

Half of Luka’s school friends were secretly superheroes. They often needed to hide bruises under makeup. Adrien was very good at it indeed—all that modeling experience. This woman’s not quite as good.

Still, the polite thing is not to notice. “Good morning,” he says.

“Oh! Good morning,” the woman says, “Are you the person who just moved into 1A? My name is Luka Paquet, I live on the second floor, upstairs from you.”

“It’s nice to meet you. My name is also Luka, Luka Couffaine. I’m a musician. I will be practicing the guitar often, I’ll give you my phone number and if I’m making too much noise just call and I’ll stop.”

“Oh no, don’t worry about it, I’m used to all sorts of noises, I was going to tell you not to worry if you hear shouting—”

“It’s really no trouble. I was going to go around to everyone in the building. My band has a proper practice space, so I won’t ever be _that_ loud here, but I know some people just can’t get to sleep if there’s music…”

Luka Paquet shakes her head. “I won’t be needing it.” She turns back to the washing machine, even though it’s nowhere near done.

Outwardly, he lets it go, takes his laundry to the washer at the other end of the row, sits on the bench and reads a book. She also brought a book, and there is no further conversation.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon. Luka Couffaine checks the mailboxes for the second floor. They’re labeled 2A, Mercier and Paquet; and 2B, Segal. He met Mme Segal briefly on Monday, she’s a little old lady who’s lived in the building for ages. She probably knows all about her neighbors. He knocks on her door, carrying a box of macarons.

Mme Segal does know all about her neighbors, and everyone else in the building, and everyone in the buildings on either side. She would be delighted to introduce Luka around. She’s pleased he’s already met Luka, she needs more friends, she has a boring office job with a bunch of boring office people and let’s not talk about her boyfriend.

Luka knows that for the invitation it is; he offers a tiny bit of encouragement and Mme Segal spills all the dirt she has on the boyfriend. Jean Mercier used to be a professional ice skater, but he broke his ankle and he can’t do that anymore, so now all he does is sponge off of Luka and drink and she suspects he hits her.

Luka says he was afraid she was going to say that, just from the way Luka talked when they met in the laundry room. Not to worry about shouting.

Mme Segal says Jean tends to come home drunk from watching football at the sports bar down the street and that’s when she always hears shouting.

Luka nods, and asks about some of his other new neighbors, and after another half hour’s pleasant conversation he goes back to his apartment, looks up when the next football match is, and makes a phone call.

* * *

Thursday evening. It’s starting to get dark outside, but it’s still warm; Luka Paquet leaves the window open. The quiet voices of people going by in the avenue are comforting. She has done all the housework. There’s a meal waiting for Jean, though he probably won’t eat it. If she’s lucky, he’ll be so drunk when he gets home that he’ll just fall asleep on the couch. If he’s not that drunk, and there’s no dinner waiting, he _will_ notice.

If there is dinner waiting, and she can keep the disgust at his drunkenness off her face, maybe he’ll just paw at her and not hit her.

It keeps getting harder to hide the disgust. It keeps getting harder to not push him away, even though rage will follow. She doesn’t have to pretend to like it when he hits her.

Keys rattle in the lock. He’s drunk enough to be having trouble, not drunk enough to just bang on the door. No luck for her tonight, then. He might appreciate it if she opened the door, or he might be angry that she doesn’t trust him to get it himself. She’s tired of guessing at his reaction. She doesn’t move.

The door clicks, opens. Jean is a happy drunk tonight; he would be skipping into the room, if he could skip without pain. “They won, Luka-love!” he shouts. “They won! Their luck has turned! It’s a good sign. Maybe my luck has turned too! Maybe I will skate again, after all! Come give us a kiss.”

She’s heard this before. It’s not what he wants to hear, but she can’t stop herself—“You said that the last time they won, and you still haven’t gone back to the rink.”

“Always so negative, Luka.” His good cheer is gone. “Don’t you believe in me anymore?”

“I _would_ if you actually _tried_ to get back into training!”

“You know my leg’s still not right!”

Here they go again. “You haven’t been doing your exercises!”

“You know I’m not supposed to do those without a spotter!”

“I would be your spotter, if you were ever here and _awake_ when I have time! Or you could go to the gym!”

He’s scowling, now. Stalking toward her. “You always have a reason why it’s my fault.”

 _You always have a reason why it’s _not_ your fault,_ she thinks. There’s no way she can defuse his temper now, but she won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch—

—— _zzzzzzip_ ——

Luka stares at the empty space where Jean had been a moment ago. Before the red and black yo-yo had whipped around his ribs and yanked him out the window.

Ladybug’s yo-yo.

She runs to the window, but there is no sign of anyone. An ordinary, empty, dark street. No Jean, no Ladybug.

There haven’t been akumas in years, but Parisians still see Ladybug and Chat Noir and the other heroes from time to time. They help lost children, they stop muggings, they do other small good deeds. They say, if there are ever supervillains or monsters again, they’ll be here.

And now Ladybug has personally removed Luka’s boyfriend from their apartment before he can start hitting her again.

She dares to hope Ladybug won’t let him come back. She closes the window, and latches it. She wonders if that’s enough of a sign she doesn’t want him back.

There’s a knock on the door. She has a moment of panic— _no, he can’t have come around and up the stairs that quickly_ —but then there’s a soft voice. “Luka?” It’s the other Luka, the man who moved in downstairs. What is he doing here?

Luka looks through the peephole in the door. There’s the other Luka, but there’s also two more of the heroes, Carapace and Queen Bee. Carapace is pushing a cart with a stack of brand new moving boxes.

“Ladybug sent us,” other Luka says after a moment.

Luka opens the door, steps back for the three of them and the cart. There’s an awkward silent moment but then Queen Bee takes charge.

“Presuming you don’t want to see M. Mercier ever again, you won’t,” she says. “The boys will pack up his stuff and take it away, and meanwhile you and I will run through the paperwork to remove him from the lease and your bank account and whatever.” She casually shoves Jean’s uneaten meal out of the way, plunks a legal briefcase down on the table, and pulls out a laptop and a sheaf of forms and brochures. “Sit. Tell me everything.”

The heroes have a system for this, it seems. Queen Bee knows what decisions need making and why, and the “boys” need hardly any help telling which things are Luka’s and which are Jean’s. They leave no mess behind, and about an hour later, Luka is alone again in the apartment that’s now only hers, both sets of keys on the counter, nothing left to do.

The silence brings self-doubts and second thoughts. She’s done with Jean, she truly is, but he has nothing else. What will become of him? Is it fair to make the break so abrupt and total? Queen Bee made it seem like the sensible course, but—what if, what if, what if.

Into her cycle of doubts comes the sound of music. She can’t hear it too clearly, but somehow it’s the most comforting tune in the world. She wants to hear it properly. She follows the melody downstairs, where she finds the other Luka practicing his guitar with his front door open. The music calls up memories: when her parents took her camping in the forest, and she slept surrounded by trees that were already tall when France still had kings. Walking on the bank of the Seine on an evening in early fall, feeling the pulse of the city. The ambitions she’d had in school, before Jean and boring office jobs…

He looks up to see her standing in the door. “It’s the music of your heart,” he says. “I couldn’t hear it before.”

There are tears in her eyes. He puts the guitar down, gestures her to a seat at his dining table, offers tea.

“How did Ladybug even _know_?” she blurts.

“I told her,” he says. “I, um, I met her civilian identity when we were both in school and we’ve stayed in touch.”

“I thought it was a secret?”

“It is, but it’s not a _vital_ secret anymore,” he says. “If there’s ever someone like Hawkmoth again, I might have to worry, but right now it’s mostly because she wants to live a normal life when she’s not wearing the suit. They all do.”

“I did love him once,” she says.

He nods. “I’m sure he was someone you could love, once.”

“Queen Bee made this seem so straightforward, but now…”

“Queen Bee never has second thoughts about anything,” he says. “And Ladybug believes problems should be solved once and permanently.”

“I _don’t_ want to see him again,” she says, “but it would help to know he’ll have somewhere to go.”

“Carapace said they had arranged a temporary apartment on the other side of the city, and help to stop drinking.”

She nods. “Good.”

He goes back to practicing guitar while she finishes her tea. He doesn’t play the music of anyone’s heart, now; it’s all chord progressions and familiar tunes.

“I should go,” she says finally. “But, thank you, for everything. And tell the heroes thank you, as well.”

“I will tell them,” he says. “By the way, I’m having a housewarming party on Saturday afternoon. Would you like to come? I’m sure all my friends would love to meet you.”

“All your friends…including Ladybug?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny that the woman under the mask has received an invitation,” Luka says with a perfectly straight face.

Luka realizes she’s remembering how to smile.

**Author's Note:**

>  _I_ can neither confirm nor deny that I wrote this because every time ML!Luka appears in the show or the fandom I get “(My name is) Luka” stuck in my head. It’s the catchiest damn song about domestic violence I’ve ever heard.
> 
> Luka is usually a male name, and the Luka in the song is meant to be a child, but I couldn’t make the story work that way.


End file.
